Double Standards
by frosty wonder ice
Summary: Civilized society denies Alphas their advantage of physical strength, making fights for dominance a thing of the past, yet Omegas are left unchecked in their use of manipulative scents. When it comes to Castiel, Dean doesn't know whether he actually likes the man or if he's simply being directed by primal desire.


Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, mentions of underage non-con

A quick beginning; I am a slow, undedicated writer, so we'll have to wait and see if this ever goes anywhere.

I actually like Bela, so I kind of feel bad about how I portray her in this.

* * *

The door to Ellen's tavern is heavy, hardened under a layer of slick frost, and the wet handle steals the last bit of warmth in Dean's palm. His fingers are long since red and stiff from the cold, and though they're mostly numb, he feels a deep ache in each as he gives the door a hard yank, the effort having more to do with the crookedness of the doorframe than the piles of snow half-assedly shoveled to either side. Dean is immediately met with yellowed light, voices muttered over the occasional clink of glass, the quiet buzz of a random song, and an escaping gust of hot air that is a giant puff of bad breath in his face, awash mostly with smells he recognizes but a few are new, even unwelcome. Heads turn his way as he enters, silences occurring in every conversation as the other Weres detect his scent in turn, acknowledging his Presence with slight shuffles or curious glances. Not for the first time, Dean wishes his Alpha stench weren't quite so strong.

Equally if not more affected by the smells of others, his eyes automatically dart to the owner of an irritatingly enticing scent at the tavern's center—an instinctual move he cannot prevent, though he's careful to school his expression to indifference when he's met with a quick, flirtatious smile. He should have been able to smell an Omega from outside, especially one so obviously flaunting a Heat, and he blames the cold for dampening his senses, for making his nose nothing more than a useless red lump on his face. He wouldn't have bothered coming inside if he'd been aware of the current clientele.

As it is, he's already made his grand entrance, so there's no point in turning tail now. He lets the door close with a loud thud behind him and turns his feet to the bar, chastising himself for his blunder as he slips onto one of the stools. The first mistake when dealing with Omegas, especially ones in Heat, was making eye contact.

"You've not heard of gloves then?" a dry but familiar voice asks, interrupting Dean's attempts to rub warmth back into his hands, and he looks up into Jo's mocking brown eyes with a small smile.

"Had some mittens, pretty pink things with puffs on the strings and everything, but lost 'em in the snow," he jokes, meeting her light scoff with another smile and adding, "The usual," as he taps twice on the counter. It's sticky and dirty but his hands have met worse so he pays the grime no mind as he grabs the edge for balance and he leans back enough to stretch one stiff leg out, keeping the other foot tucked on the stool's rung. An empty glass is placed before him and Jo's mid-reach for a bottle of cheap whiskey when he says, "The battery's fine, just a bad connection. The cables are corroded."

The whiskey retrieval is aborted as Jo's demeanor shifts to one between exasperation and annoyance, her head dropping to one side in a huff, eyes accusing.

"Did you break into my car again?" she growls. It's adorable, her attempt at being threatening to him.

"Well I can't see the battery if the hood's down," Dean answers, his smile widening at her subsequently pinched expression. He shrugs at her, then raises his eyebrows and nudges the still empty glass between them.

"I'll come by in the morning with a battery jumper," he continues, rolling in his lips to hide a smirk when she scowls but sets to retrieving his alcohol. He'd be worried about her temper but he knows she's just trying to hide how pleased she is that he's fixing her beat-up junk heap. For free. Again. He nods his thanks as she slides the now half-full glass back to him. "That should get it started and I can take it to Bobby's. He'll have a near make or model I can scavenge some same-size cables from."

"And Bobby'll be okay with that?" Jo asks wryly, now looking amused.

Dean snorts at her concern, "Ah, he won't notice," and then takes a large swallow of the amber liquid, fogging a contented breath into the raised glass as the alcohol warms him. He takes another quick sip before licking his lips and lowering the glass, more smiles ready for Jo, only to have his banter interrupted by a slight shift in the air. The humor is lost, the brief moment of lifted spirits crashing back into weariness.

He'd expected it, of course, but had hoped the undesirable exchange could be delayed for as long as possible. Jo's eyes flit over his shoulder and, for a moment, her unimpressed stare makes Dean wonder if she's planning a rescue, if she has his back on this one, but then other patrons are calling for more alcohol, rattling their empty glasses on the counter in another spectacular example of the universe's perfect timing clause, and she's leaving him to face the enemy alone, naught but a sympathetic glance to support him.

Left to his own defense, Dean is quick to pull in both feet against the stool's rung and tuck in his elbows even as he slumps in the most unappealing manner possible—simple body language to give the impression of unfriendliness and help fend off unsolicited advances.

As always, it doesn't work as well as he wishes it would.

"Hello there," the Omega purrs, tugging a free stool closer to Dean's and sliding onto it, exuding an air of confidence and conceit. She rubs a hand over her neck in a show of pushing back her long hair but it's obvious she's wafting her scent at him and Dean's eyes close, his breath stuttering. She smells amazing, as all Omegas do, like goddamned freshly baked pie sitting temptingly on an open windowsill. Her Heat is that extra pinch of cinnamon spiciness that makes Dean's mouth water and stomach clench. She knows the effect she's having on him, how she's pushing him further than any of the Betas around them ever could, and when he opens his eyes, he catches her smirk. It's a small thing, but it's enough to clear the fog in his mind.

"Not interested," he growls, quick to bring the glass of whiskey back to his mouth, both to breathe in the alcohol fumes, cancelling out the Omega's scent, and to make his hand harder to reach for any casual touching. The second mistake when dealing with Omegas was letting them get skin-to-skin contact.

"Don't be like that," she hums, slowly lifting a delicate hand, aware that Dean's keeping a close watch on her movements from the corner of his eye. When he doesn't immediately snarl at her, she runs her fingertips lightly down his bicep. Dean's usual layers of shirts and leather jacket keep either of them from feeling the burn but they both shudder anyway at the touch. The Omega scoots closer excitedly.

Dean jerks away, shooting her a scowl, careful to never look above her nose. "Stop it. I said I wasn't interested."

A flash of irritation flashes crosses the Omega's face and she gives a subtle sniff, taking in his scent.

"Like hell you're not," she says quietly, tone harsh but even. Then, just as quickly, she's back to looking coy, smiling sweetly. "I don't smell a mate on you. How unusual, too." Her hand again begins its teasing trace down his arm. "Seems like an Alpha with _your_ Presence would have his pick of the bitches."

It's meant to be a compliment, and somewhere deep inside Dean's instinctual ego does enjoy the stroke, but he is more than instinct and he can read between the lines. She wants to trap him, to make him her dog on a leash, her defender—at least so far until she finds one bigger and stronger than him. That was the way Omegas worked, always ready to roll over for the next best Alpha. While Alphas did have a natural leadership to them, their Presence commanding attention, they would always be weak to the mental manipulations of Omegas, weak to that mouthwatering scent.

The only advantage Alphas had over Omegas was physical strength, but that had quickly come to a stop over the last century with the rise of civilized culture. It wasn't that Dean agreed with the more radical groups clinging to the past, claiming that Omegas should be beaten, put in their place through violence and dominated whether they wanted to be or not. No, he was all for equality and growing away from tradition. It only irritated him that equality was such a one way street in society's mind. An Alpha claiming to being used by an Omega was seen as weak, a nancy-boy. But one cry of wolf from an Omega and the laws came down, hardly any doubt in the minds of a jury, because surely a frail little Omega didn't stand a chance against a big bad Alpha.

So Dean doesn't answer, doesn't let himself growl in approval at the Omega's attentions, and instead swallows the last of his drink in one large gulp, slams down the glass, and slides off the stool, turning away from the Omega. He tosses a bill retrieved from his jean's pocket onto the counter and nods at Jo when their eyes meet across the bar, a silent indication that he'll be back in the morning to help with her car. All the while, he ignores the Omega but he can tell by her scent that she's getting excited, thinking she's landed a strong Presence for her Heat cycle. His body language should be clear, he thinks, but Omegas only ever see what they want.

Dean gives a derisive snort and turns to leave. When he hears the creak of the Omega's stool shifting as she hops to her feet behind him, he pauses, eyes focused on the door as he snarls without turning around, "I'm _not_ interested."

He'd only said it loud enough for the Omega to hear, but his Presence and scent push out to grab the attention of the entire tavern. There are a few sharp intakes of breath before everyone goes silent again, the only thing keeping the air from stilling entirely being the quiet hum of music. The Omega's gasp had been the loudest, hers with a touch of fright against the surprise of the others. Typically, Omegas liked dominance displays, it made them _swoon_, but Dean hadn't been showing off, hadn't been boasting his Presence.

Dean had _threatened_.

The heels the Omega wears click against the boarded floor of the tavern as she scuttles backwards, a stool clattering loudly to the floor when she bumps it along the way. The rest in the tavern, all Betas, are quick to duck their heads, cautiously watching Dean without really looking at him, ready to read his cues and get out of his way if necessary. Well, all of them except Jo; Dean can feel her eyes burning into his back, though he knows her body is probably rigid and shaking as she forces herself to do so, always one to fight instincts as much as him.

With another snort, Dean starts again toward the door, the Betas who'd been chatting near it hurriedly moving to make a clear path.

Just as he pushes it open and steps out into the cold, he hears the Omega shakily and weakly call after him, "Mi-misogynistic pig!" but all it takes is one glare over his shoulder and she's again cowering against the bar.

The door closes with another heavy thud behind him.

* * *

Dean had only been fourteen the first time he encountered a sexually mature Omega. He'd barely started his human puberty, was far from his wolf one, but he could still smell the Omega better than any of his Beta classmates.

It was a Beta's world, Alphas being rare and Omegas more so. Dean had had little contact with the two polar genders outside his own family, so the first whiff he'd caught of the mature Omega had him so dizzy he'd almost fallen over—and she hadn't even entered the classroom yet. Later, he would come to understand that she'd been in her Heat, that that had caused the haze clouding his pre-pubescent Were mind, but at the time all he knew was that she smelt absolutely marvelous and that his body was becoming unnaturally warm. It was the first time he'd gotten a boner in the middle of class.

Dean was accustomed to getting his way. As an Alpha, he was bigger than the rest of his age group and, even as young as he was, he had a strong Presence. His classmates were more than happy to fall in line behind him. He was born to lead, it was his role in a long lost time ago, and if it made him a bit pompous—well, what Alpha wasn't?

But when Ms. Talbot stepped into his homeroom, the new substitute for their pupped teacher, everything Dean had thought he knew about his place amongst his peers felt like nothing more than running in a circle after his own tail. Her eyes had zeroed in on him without even a glance at the other students and she'd smiled in such a way that had Dean grabbing the edges of his desk to stay upright. He'd smiled back dreamily, confidently, _naively_, and was lost.

He was just a kid human, a mere pup of a wolf. Ms. Talbot wasn't that much older than him by years, though considerably older by maturity. She was only twenty, the age most Omegas began their puberty, Alphas typically starting a little later around 23. Though Dean never knew it, Bela Talbot had started her Heats early, at a tender age of 16. If it had warped her in ways, having to fend off advances at such a young age, she was too strong of character to show it. At least not to any prying eyes.

All Dean remembered about their first encounter alone was having his vision go white and his knees buckling under him. He'd been held after his physical education class, asked by Coach Roach to stack the jumpers; he was the strongest, after all. He'd taken his time doing the chore, not eager to continue to his next class of Literature, but when he'd finally stepped into the locker room, the wave of tantalizing scent that slammed into him knocked him off his feet as well as any solid wall could.

It all happened so fast, _too_ fast. The next moment he was staring blearily up at the ceiling, body feeling oddly lethargic and heavy. His head was spinning, vision swimming. He'd struggled to sit up, only to belatedly realize he was naked from the waist down, jeans a restrictive clump around his ankles, and he blinked at his own oddly wet and tender cock, utterly confused. A shuffling nearby alerted him to another person in the room—a shock, because he had a great sense of smell and should have known someone was there. But there'd been something wrong with his nose; it had stung, _burned_, like he'd smelled too much of a too sharp odor.

But it was only Ms. Talbot standing nearby, someone who shouldn't have been a threat. She had showered at some point, her wet hair tied up in a towel, and she was just beginning to adjust her skirt when she'd noticed Dean staring in wonder at her. Dean had never admitted it to anyone, even strictly denied it to himself, but the wicked smirk she'd given him then had shot a bolt of fear through him faster than any Alpha's snarl ever had—or ever _would_.

"You know why I like Alphas your age, Dean?" Ms. Talbot had asked, smoothly walking over to grasp his chin, forcing him to look at her even as he tried to draw away. He was Alpha strong, and yet had felt so disoriented and dizzy in the face of her burning scent. His struggles seemed to please her; her smirk had widened before she'd continued, "You're too young to knot but just old enough that it's still fun. Such a good boy."

With that, she'd kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair before letting her own loose of the towel, dropping the damp article over his face. He'd been so dull of sense that it'd taken him a moment to think to pull it away. Ms. Talbot had made it to the door by then, but she paused to give him a wink over her shoulder, saying, "Let's do this again sometime, hm?" and was gone in the next moment, leaving him there, half-naked and bewildered.

It was then that Dean began to understand the danger of an Alpha's greatest weakness.

* * *

It's a bad set of memories, Ms. Talbot's short time at his school. She'd managed to corner him three more times in the month and half that she had substituted, though none of those times were nearly as severe as the first without her Heat to completely confuse him. Her mature scent was enough to make him unwillingly compliant but he was able to keep a few patchy recollections of their encounters, though he did his best to shove the memories away, to pretend nothing had happened.

His mood, however, had soured drastically and soon even his knuckleheaded friends had noticed. His closest ones had braved his surliness, had tentatively asked for the reason behind his recent disposition, and he was young enough, foolish enough, to confide in them. To his pained surprise, rather than be appalled by Ms. Talbot's advances, Dean's friends had been ecstatic, clapping him on the back and giving cheers. Awesome, they had called it, and praised Dean as an _Alpha's_ Alpha—not even mature and already bagging Omegas. What could he possibly have to be upset about?

Later, with a different set of friends, at an older age, Dean had jokingly brought up the possibility of Omegas raping Alphas, just to scent the winds of the new group's opinions. To his dismay, he was met with similar reactions. What a good laugh they'd all had. It was _impossible_, the Betas declared, because Alphas _always_ wanted it, were _always_ hot for it; Alphas could barely keep it in their pants as it was, much less when they smelled a nearby Omega. The notion that an Alpha _wouldn't_ want to claim, mate, _fuck_ was completely ludicrous.

Dean had laughed with them, played along, made self-deprecating jokes about his gender. It was only when he'd noticed his dorky little brother standing just outside his bedroom door, staring at him in puppy-eyed concern, that he realized someone had detected the nervousness in his jokes, that someone _questioned_ his bravado. Embarrassed, Dean had been quick to slam the door in his brother's face—go find your own friends, Sammy!

It was the last time Dean ever tried to broach the subject.

* * *

It feels like a light bump against the cold metal of the car's engine but immediately a sharp pain shoots up Dean's hand and he curses as he jerks away from the vehicle to examine the injury. It's small, the size of a pencil tip on the second knuckle of his index, but it stings and the blood flows freely despite the purplish tint of his skin indicating that there was little circulation. He huffs an annoyed breath, mentally berating himself for not towing the car into the moderately warmer shop, having thought doing so a waste of time due to the quick nature of the required maintenance. The pain dulls to a throb and, irritated, Dean wonders how he can feel it at all when he can't feel anything else.

He has to awkwardly twist to dig the wad of tissues from his pocket, being that his non-bleeding hand is on the opposite side of where they're stuffed in his coat, but he figures snot-soaked Kleenex is better than the stiff, grease-covered rags lying about. Once retrieved, he gives his raw and runny nose another wipe before dabbing up the blood on his hand. Amazing how such a little wound could gush so much red. He can barely smell the blood, thanks to the winter cold that had taken up residence in his lungs, giving him a clogged nose with a nasty cough and an aching chest to accompany it. It's disconcerting, having his sense of smell so crippled. He, who had a nose better than any, now had to practically bury his face in a scent just to get a good whiff.

Abruptly deciding that he can finish changing spark plugs _after_ lunch, Dean stuffs the dirtied tissue back into a pocket and winds through snow-covered junk piles toward Bobby's house, eyeing the small nick in his finger as he goes. The blood has stopped dripping but the skin isn't stitching together yet, the healing process slowed by the cold. Feeling another sneeze coming on, Dean is tempted to just "wolf out" and find a nice fireplace to curl in front of; his wolf form always healed faster, both from disease and injury.

The kitchen is empty when Dean clambers through the back door, tracking in snow as he does—it'll melt soon so he doesn't pay it much mind. A small space heater hums near the opposite wall, only giving out enough heat to warm the room a few degrees higher than the outside temperature, but there's no wind and that makes all the difference—at least for the first few minutes, and then Dean clomps into Bobby's living-room-turned-library to start some logs burning in the fireplace. Once the fire is crackling, his hands flexed a short distance from it to absorb heat, Dean again considers turning wolf and napping away his afternoon, job be damned.

But before he can fully convince himself it's a good idea, that Bobby's temper isn't _that_ terrifying, there's a buzzing rattling through the book-filled halls, and Dean groans.

Normally he would ignore the caller. It's not technically his house, no matter he'd spent a good deal of his life in it, and anything to do with the salvage yard—inquiries, complaints, demands—were supposed to be made at the little tin shack that posed as Bobby's "office." However, Bobby's latest visitor apparently did not understand that the door buzzer merely need but one or two pushes, _not_ to be held continuously, and it takes less than five seconds for the noise to grate on Dean's nerves. Then he's stomping to the front door, yanking it open with a stuffy snarl that's mostly cut off by a hack as he's just snorted a ball of snot.

Immediately, Dean is pinned by an intense stare, and automatically his shoulders stiffen in response, his back straightening to make himself look bigger, his teeth sharpening threateningly, faster than his lips can draw back—because, _fuck_, this is another Alpha that's _fucking_ _challenging_ _him_ in his own den, what the _fuck!_—but then, in the next breath, the other's head swiftly tilts down, stare dropping from Dean's eyes to his toes in a gesture of submission.

Dean is slow to lower his hackles, adrenaline that had instantly pumped at the possibility of a fight still swimming in each heartbeat, but he forces himself to relax enough to no longer loom aggressively over the man on his—on _Bobby's_—doorstep, though he's secretly rather proud he can pull off a Presence when impaired by fevered exhaustion. _Not an Alpha, not an Alpha_, he repeats to himself, mentally helping to calm his physical response. He licks at the blood pooling along the crease of his mouth, where his teeth had cut several small tears, and warily surveys the bulky form of the unfamiliar Beta.

_Bundled_, is Dean's first thought, because there are so many layers covering this guy, the only show of skin being an oval around his eyes, with a smashed, floppy brown hat over his head and a haphazardly wrapped red scarf covering the lower half of his face. He looks to have two, if not three, coats on, the collars and hoods tangled with the scarf in a way that has to be uncomfortable. The suit pants are stretched over what appear to be thick legs but there's green plaid fabric peeking from under the seams over each boot so it's likely that the hulk is more from additional layers rather than build of body. Absolutely nothing matches.

Dean scoffs inwardly. It's cold, but it's not _that_ cold.

The man's finger still hovers over the buzzer. Dean gives it a sharp, annoyed look, but rather than hurriedly returning the hand to his side, the man instead hesitates for a moment and then once more _pushes the buzzer_.

"Wha'dya _want?_" Dean barks, hating how raspy he sounds, how _weak_. Even so, even with his nose Rudolph red, his cheeks equally hot, he manages a decent enough glower to intimidate the other Were into halting, the buzzing cutting off instantly. His teeth are beginning to sharpen again in response to his anger and they tear at his lips as he snarls, "_Jesus!_ I'm standing _right here!_ The _fuck_, man?"

The multi-layered Were briefly looks up—and in that short time the gaze is every bit intense and firm, not the slightest bit of fear or deference in the man's eyes, and Dean can feel the little hairs on his neck starting to rise—but then the guy looks away, over Dean's shoulder into the house beyond, and in a very matter-of-fact, muffled rumble says, "Yes, but I am looking for a Bobby Singer, whom I don't believe you are."

Dean glares through narrowed eyes, but he's starting to become dizzy, a headache has begun behind his eyes, and he doesn't have the patience for this sort of thing on a good day, much less a bad one. He growls as the man's hand begins to drift toward the buzzer again and slams his own palm over the offensive button before it can be pressed.

The man doesn't even flinch and instead, of all things, appears miffed, eyebrows drawn tight, eyes squinty, as though _Dean_ is the one being difficult.

"Bobby's not here," Dean snarls, fingernails changing into claws and digging into the wood around the buzzer. "So _scram_."

Even the hair on Dean's head is standing on end by now and he knows he has to make quite the sight, what with being in full threat mode without going entirely wolf—hackles up, teeth sharp, claws out, shoulders again stiff and broad—while at the same time being completely sick off his ass—a runny and red nose, watery eyes, flushed cheeks, sounding like a dying frog—but finally, _finally_, the other Were seems unnerved. He takes a quick step back, head again tilting down in submission. He is careful to keep a watchful eye on Dean, though he never looks higher than Dean's chest, and he turns sideways to Dean, instinctually positioning himself in a way to flee should the need arise.

And yet, even looking as cautious as the guy does, even knowing full well Dean's opinion on the matter, he still gains confidence from somewhere and determinedly starts, "I have business with Bobby Sing—"

"_Leave!_" Dean roars, and his voice cracks embarrassingly on the word but it doesn't matter because the Beta yelps in surprise at the command and scrambles to escape as Dean heaves forward with threatening intent, clawed hand swiping dangerously close the man's head. If they were in wolf form, Dean would have snapped at the other's tail. As it is, he settles for giving a good chase for a few yards, just close enough on the Beta's heels to put the fear of God in the man, to let him know that Dean could easily catch him if he wanted to, sick or not.

But Dean doesn't want to catch him, he only wants the guy to_ go_, and he abruptly stops after a few strides, giving a satisfied snuffle when the other Were keeps running. He hates relying on his sight rather than his nose—not nearly as dependable—so he waits a few minutes after the man disappears around a pile of cars before he's convinced he is alone at last and returns to Bobby's house.

Whatever source he'd pulled strength from had apparently depleted at the burst of activity and he practically drags himself through the front door, using his body to slam it closed by falling back against it. He stands in the hallway for a bit longer, huffing and puffing, and half-expects to hear the annoying buzzer at any moment. Much to his relief, it never comes, and after a while he pushes himself up and trudges to the living room. The abated adrenaline-fueled anger has left him more exhausted and achy than ever, so he decides that it is, in fact, worth Bobby's yapping to take a nap. His clothes end up in a heap over one of the couches and then he's cracking his way through a full transformation, breath wheezing out of him at the effort it takes.

The rug is no doubt full of dust and dirt but it's comfortable enough and his nose is too stuffed with mucous to smell anything anyway. He lies splayed on his side, belly exposed to the fire, and has to part his lips and suck air through his teeth to breathe. There's a persistent itch behind his ear and, _God_, he wants to scratch it but that just takes so much energy that he doesn't have, so instead he simply gives a quiet whine and a small, repressed part of him wishes he had someone around to scratch it for him.

With unwanted feelings of loneliness making his chest ache worse than his cold, Dean falls asleep.


End file.
